


Teeth

by GoddessofBirth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Dylan ponders Stiles too much, M/M, Photoshoots, RPF, Sexy Times, Smut, oblivious boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That photoshoot, a bar, and Dylan having a mental freakout.  Also, tumblr, meta ponderings, and admission of the Sterek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, and I'm terribly embarrassed I even wrote this. Inspired by *that* photo/video shoot. Yes, that one. But let's say in an alternate universe. Yes, that makes me feel better. If I don't die from shame, I'll post the second part later. But I probably will die from shame. Also, I blame this on Saredon. The whole Triad. ALL OF YOU. (er..I guess that means I blame myself too?)

Dylan can still feel it, the imprint against his skin, even through flannel and jacket, and he rubs briskly at it while he walks the downtown Atlanta streets. A stupid photo shoot, _a stupid photo shoot_ – God he hates those things, because they want you to smile and be cute and coy – boy or girl, they _always_ want the coy...unless they want the sultry and _fuck_ he hates that even more – and they think that just because you act you should be able to be funny and natural while they click away and it's not the same at all...

 

He shakes his head to stop the run away train of thought – he's starting to sound like Stiles with the amount his brain is babbling, and he doesn't even have the excuse of ADHD. But yeah, he hates photo shoots, because they're nothing like acting, and he's awkward and stupid and bumbling and it's like seventh grade all over again. He's not like Hoechlin and Holland, who make eyes and flirt with the camera like breathing air, who are  _spontaneous_ without thinking. And the photographers eat it up, just like today, just like that  _bite_ .

 

He rubs at his wrist again, dodging around a crowd of giggling school girls, hoping none of them recognize him. He loves the fans, he really does – he knows it's only because of them that Stiles' character was expanded and given as much screen time as he has – but right now he just wants to get to this dive he and Hoechlin and Posey had found a week ago, where they would give him a freaking drink without asking for his ID.

 

He really needs a drink.

 

He hadn't been expecting it, not when he was cozied up on one side of Holland; hadn't really been thinking about Hoechlin at all when he'd felt his wrist picked up and teeth sinking into his skin. And for all that Hoechlin had been grinning and laughing, that bite had been  _hard_ . His brain had melted to a halt, and it had almost been as embarrassing as that time he'd unconsciously fisted his hand into Hoechlin's jacket when they were supposed to be headlocking Posey.

 

He's close, he sees the bar a few hundred feet ahead, and he quickens his stride, rubbing his thumb fiercely against his wrist now, as he remembers when, at the end of the shoot, the videographer there had shown them the raw footage. He relives the feeling of wanting to sink into the floor, because when they play past Hoechlin's bite, right there, splayed across the screen, are Dylan's fucking eyes  _rolling back in his head_ . And Holland giggles and Hoechlin slaps his back, a rough congratulations for playing into the scene so well, but it's all Dylan can do not to burn bright red, because he knows and they have to know he's not going to become that comfortable with the shoots overnight.

 

And he makes a hasty retreat, stammers some kind of excuse about meeting Posey, which is total bullshit, but he doesn't care because he has to get out of there  _right now_ , and he's some kind of freaked out mess because  _Hoechlin fucking bit him_ . 

 

But thank Jesus fucking Christ, because he finally reaches the bar, and in seconds is hidden in cool, dark rooms, where nobody sees him and nobody knows him, and once the bartender slides him a beer, he retreats to a corner table, his back to the wall. At three o'clock in the afternoon the place is almost empty, and so he feels comfortable shedding his flannel overshirt and long sleeve Henley, until there's just a thin t-shirt separating him from the air conditioned humidity.

 

He drinks half the beer in one long swallow, thinks he'll order another one, and maybe another – hell, they aren't shooting until tomorrow night, plenty of time to sleep it off – and he's so lost in planning out his descent into alcoholism, that he doesn't even notice Hoechlin until he slides into the padded bench seat beside him.

 

'Hey, man, I thought you were meeting Posey.'

 

Dylan does  _not_ jump – that's something Stiles would do, not him – but he does drop his beer to the table a little too hard, and his hand flies up to his wrist before he manages to pull it back down to the safety of his lap.

 

'He got held up.'

 

Hoechlin lets the excuse pass, but nods to Dylan's wrist. 'Sorry about that. It seemed like the thing to do.'

 

'It's fine, but Jesus, Hoechlin, were you trying to rip my artery out?

 

'That hard?' Hoechlin grimaces. 'Let me see.'

 

'No, I said it's - ' but nobody's listening to him, not even himself, apparently, because he just dociley lets Hoechlin grab his wrist and hold it up to the half light. He stares, almost like he's mesmerized by the two sets of half moons indented there.

 

'Christ.' He doesn't take his eyes from Dylan's wrist as he runs a finger slowly over them. 'I left teeth marks.' Dylan has a full body shiver, and he sees goosebumps break out all the way up his arm. Hoechlin stills for just one second and then he shifts his grip, using the thumb of the hand around his wrist to start tracing light, concentric circles over the wound.

 

Dylan tugs in a silent request for release, but Hoechlin either doesn't get it, or doesn't care, because he just keeps up that same, careful stroke.

 

'Tyler.' He tugs again, because, really, he's freaking twenty, and his co-star looks like sex on a stick, with a stupidly good sense of humor to boot. He's about to do something dumbly embarrassing. 'Let go.'

 

Hoechlin doesn't look away from his fingers against Dylan's skin, but his hand tightens to prevent his escape. 'Why?'

 

'Because...because I  _said._ What the hell?'

 

'Hmm...' Hoechlin looks like he's thinking about it, thinking about letting Dylan slink away to safety, but instead he just presses his thumb hard into his flesh. 'You ever get online to the fan sites? Tumblr and that shit? You see the things they write about us?'

 

'Of course I go on there. All of us do.' They're not supposed to, the producers and agents think it's 'anti-productive' or they'll be scarred for life or something, but who can resist seeing what raw fan opinion is? And wow...fans...fans have some ideas. He curls his free hand around his beer, just for something distracting to do, and ends up swallowing the rest before he thinks better of it. 'Besides, they're not writing that stuff about us. They're writing about Derek and Stiles, and both you and I know those two are just an eye fuck away from the gay-for-you parade.'

 

'You know what I think, O'Brien?' He's still not looking at him, but he tugs on Dylan's wrist, so that Dylan falls a little into him. Dylan's pretty sure he's sweating, and he's still trying to figure out exactly what Hoechlin's game is, but he's pinned, his heart rate going at alarming speeds.

 

'Wha -' his voice comes out dry and brittle so he swallows and tries again. 'What?'

 

Hoechlin's tongue comes out to sweep over his lower lip, something Derek would never do, but Stiles does on a religious basis.

 

'I think...' he starts, and finally looks up at Dylan, his eyes hooded under thick eyelashes. 'I think neither one of us are that good of actors.' Then, not dropping Dylan's stare, he lifts his wrist to his mouth and fits his teeth back over it. When he bites this time, Dylan is expecting it, but it doesn't make his reaction any better.  _Hell_ , it probably makes it worse, because he's half hard and his breath drags painfully in and out of his lungs and, his eyes - 

 

' _Fuck_ ,' Hoechlin mutters, when he confirms that, yes, Dylan's eyes  _do_ , in fact, roll back because of him, and then his hands are in Dylan's hair and tugging his head back to bare his throat. And maybe the guy really is a goddamned werewolf, because he's got his mouth on Dylan's neck and his teeth are scrapping a straight line from his jaw to his collar bone.

 

They really, really should not be doing this here; Dylan has enough sanity to remember this absolutely would not make their publicists happy, even as he's grabbing an instinctive hold on Hoechlin's own hair, twisting his fingers into the longer locks and anchoring his mouth right were it's latched onto his collar bone. But the room is dark and cool and deep, and Dylan just can't bring himself to care.

 


	2. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is smut.

They're running through the now dark streets, laughing and stumbling as they try to get back to the hotel. The afternoon has passed in haze of alcohol and dirty, half obscene groping, until Dylan is almost convinced Hoechlin intends to actually fuck him there, pressed into that dim, cool corner, and he's almost convinced he'll let him. Hoechlin must be thinking the same thing, because he finally pays off their tab, in a desperate fumble of cash and wallet, and tugs Dylan to his feet.

 

'Come on, let's go.'

 

And Dylan is drunk, he knows he is, but Tyler is drunk too, and they're running high on endorphins and booze, needing someplace, someplace _soon_ , where they can take clothes off. Dylan thinks it would go a lot faster if Hoechlin wouldn't keep yanking him into darkened doorways and shadowed corners, to bite feverishly at his mouth, away from the prying eyes of the streetlamps.

 

One of these times, his hand halfway up Dylan's t-shirt and the other one down the back of his jeans, he mutters, 'Fuck. You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this.'

 

Dylan can barely hear him, his fingers greedy as they ruck up Hoechlin's Henley, pressing deep into skin he's touched before but only in an  _oh so professional_ capacity, and he pushes their groins together, tilting on his toes to grind at him through their jeans. That's probably gonna chaff come tomorrow, but he does  _not_ fucking care, and Hoechlin just makes a rasping sound and shoves Dylan harder against the wall. He kind of imagines this is what Derek  _actually_ wants to do to Stiles every time he threatens him, and  _oh my god_ how is he going to be able to do those scenes anymore without getting hard?

 

He finally manages to answer him, when Hoechlin has his hands back in his hair, bending his neck so that he can get at the spot right under his chin. Dylan is starting to get the feeling that if they don't move soon, one of them will be coming on the spot.

 

'How...how long?'

 

Tyler jerks back; Dylan can see that it takes him a second to clear his head enough to remember what Dylan is responding to, and he really,  _really_ likes that look on him, is gonna do what he can, while he can, to keep putting it there. Doesn't matter he's awkward and goofy and shy as hell except when he's acting – right now, Dylan O'Brien is a sex god, and he is gonna enjoy every last minute of it, until Hoechlin comes to his senses and remembers he has a million and one gorgeous females just clamoring for his bed.

 

He knows the exact instant Tyler remembers, sees his already blown pupils shadow further. 'Too fucking long. Come on,' he grabs his hand and pulls him back on the street, doesn't let go as they start running again. 'Posey in your room?' They're doubled up, all of them, until the set properly opens tomorrow and they move into trailers. They probably could have afforded their own, or demanded them, like the older actors did, but they're all friends; they genuinely like each others company.

 

'No, he's somewhere...somewhere with Colton.' And they're running, running, running, and Dylan can't breath, a combination of laughter and coiling lust and lack of oxygen, and Tyler is laughing again, pretending to howl at the moon.

 

'Thank fuck for that. Keahu is camped in ours, studying for some damn test.' The lights of the hotel are just ahead, and they put on a last burst of speed, come tumbling pell mell through the doors of Regency. The quiet of the place is a smothering reminder of money and propriety and the disapproving stares of the staff and guest manage to quell their exuberance just long enough for them to walk more or less sedately, until they reach the elevator. Dylan is hyper-aware that Hoechlin still has a grip on his hand, wonders if either of them are even thinking about what will happen if someone  _sees_ . Probably nothing, because the whole cast is pretty affectionate, touchy feely – it will likely be brushed off as  _those young metro boys_ rather than anything  _untoward_ .

 

The second the elevator doors ding shut, they look at each other and burst out laughing again. Fucking Atlanta and old South traditions. Looking melts into staring, and Dylan feels his laughter trail off at the same time Hoechlin sobers; for half a second he's not sure either of them breaths, and then Tyler is on him, crowding him against the wall of the elevator, hands in one hundred different places all at once.

 

Neither of them lets go when the doors open, just stagger down the hall in a graceless half dance of mouths and tongues and trying to get each others clothes off. Dylan's flannel is hanging from one arm when they finally reach his room and Hoechlin slips his hand in his back pocket and blindly shoves the keycard into the lock. They stumble in and it becomes a race to see who can get who naked first.

 

They trip a little over shoes and socks, but just a little, and then they're tumbling into bed, Hoechlin pressing him into the mattress. His weight is solid, and real, and it anchors Dylan back to Earth. He arches his neck back and rolls his hips up, wrapping one ankle around Tyler's, and there's already a slippery slide of pre-cum between them. Dylan knows he's going to be a filthy, sticky, fucked out mess after this, and the anticipation has him biting his lip and digging fingers into the bedsheets.

 

'Jesus,' he gasps, riding out the moment, and then focuses back on where Tyler has been sucking hard at his neck for god knows how long. Dylan shoves at him.

 

'I swear to god, if you give me a hickey I'm gonna kill you. Make-up will never let me hear the end of it.'

 

Tyler pulls back and gives him an incredulous look. 'Pretty sure that horse was out of the barn a couple hours ago, O'Brien.' The way he's staring at Dylan's neck makes him wonder how many bruises are across it, and then he's distracted, skimming his thumb up Hoechin's neck, over the dark red marks he's somehow just realizing are peppered there. And _fuck_ that's hot, that Tyler's let him mark him up all to hell, doesn't even seem to care who sees or knows.

 

'Stop thinking, Dylan,' Tyler orders, and so Dylan obeys, lets spit and slick and muscle and mouth distract him, for god knows how long, until he's almost panting out of his skin, needing to get to the next stage  _right fucking now_ . Luckily Hoechlin is right there with him, crouching over Dylan's stomach, where he's fairly certain he has another set of teeth marks. Someone really should talk to him about his biting fetish; Dylan would, but he likes it too much. He rests his chin on Dylan's gut, and grins.

 

'Where's your stuff?'

 

'What...what stuff?' Dylan is trying desperately to get his brain un-mushed.

 

'Condoms...lube... _stuff_ !'

 

Dylan shakes his head. 'I don't...I don't have any.'

 

Tyler laugh sounds amused, even though Dylan can't see his face where it's buried in stomach. 'Jesus, Dylan, you're on set and you don't have condoms?'

 

That stings, just a little, and so Dylan snaps. 'Well excuse me. Not all of us are into casual sex, jackass.'

 

Hoechlin jerks and then pulls completely away, back on his haunches between Dylan's legs. 'You think this is casual?'

 

Dylan can tell he's somehow mis-stepped, badly, and that they're on dangerous ground, but he doesn't know why, so he answers honestly. 'I don't know  _what_ this is.'

 

Tyler pins him down by his shoulders, emphasizing each word with a little push. 'This. Is not. Casual.' He cants into Dylan, rutting against him slow and steady as he keeps talking, finding that perfect place where they're caught against each other's hip and the spit and sweat they've exchanged makes everything slide in spark inducing pleasure.

 

'I've tried...tried to talk to you for months.  _For months_ . Sit next to you when we're out, always asking you to come with us. Have you seriously not noticed?' He's panting against Dylan's mouth, their breath mingling together, and Dylan is honestly trying to listen, but he's more interested in the feeling that's gathering at the base of his spine, the way he can feel Tyler getting even harder as grinds into his pelvis.

 

'Sometimes –' his words are getting spaced out and jerking in hitches, and Dylan threads his fingers in Tyler's hair, drags him close for long sloppy kisses in between his exposition, wonders if he could come from just the sound of his sex-wrecked voice. 'Sometimes I think I see you watching me, but I can't ever be sure, only time...only time you really look at me is when we're filming.'

 

Because that is when Dylan feels powerful, invincible.

 

'Couldn't decide if you wanted to fuck me or I was just one of them...Posey or Colton or Holland...just...just...' his hips are stuttering in their rhythm, which is totally okay, because Dylan is close, so freaking close, and if he doesn't –

 

Tyler's pushing up on his elbows, letting his forehead drop against Dylan's so he can still see him, watch him mouth inaudible curses as he hurtles toward the edge. 'I couldn't be sure....couldn't be sure...not until today. I saw you today.'

 

And just like that his hips snap down, and his eyes squeeze shut, and the sound...the  _sound_ that escapes from his mouth when he comes is raw and rough and explicit; Dylan can't do anything but let it pull him over, too, whimpering and loud and probably leaving nail marks all the way down Tyler's back.

 

He's shooting shirtless tomorrow – make up will have a kitten.

 

In the quiet few minutes of recovery, neither of them move, cum cooling between them and Hoechlin's hand pawing fitfully at Dylan's hip. He moves, finally, but only to roll them to the side, still stuck together. He doesn't open his eyes as he says, 'No lube. No condoms. Best we can do. Sorry.'

 

'I'm not complaining,' Dylan narrows his eyes suspiciously. 'Are you?'

 

Tyler snorts. 'Not likely. But next time will be better. I'll be prepared.'

 

There'll be a next time? Tyler must know what he's thinking, because he says again, his voice wrung out and tired and just this side of sleep –

 

'It's not casual, Dylan.

 

And rather than unsticking himself and showering, doing a dozen other smart things, Dylan lets himself believe him, drapes a hand across his ribs, and falls asleep.

 

 


End file.
